


Call Me Sunshine

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Florist Eskel, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soft Eskel (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29645913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: It becomes a habit to keep an eye on the front door every Wednesday.  Jaskier told him after the second week that he tries to grab the flowers on his lunch break.  It’s how he found the shop in the first place.“I tutor a kid near here,” he tells Eskel as he watches the florist trim the thorns off some David Austen roses.  “He’s a menace, but his mom wants him to learn piano and is willing to pay for all the grey hairs I’m getting.”“You play piano?”“And a few other instruments.  My favorite is the lute.”Eskel grins a little.  “A lute?  Do you moonlight as a bard too?”___________________________Or, a florist AU with enough misunderstandings and pining to fill an entire season of a CW show.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've finally folded and sunk into the Jaskel fandom. Try not to judge me too harshly.

Eskel is trimming a new batch of lilacs and larkspur when he hears the tinkle of the bell signaling a customer has entered his shop. He sighs and stuffs the cut stems carefully into a bucket of fresh water so they won’t droop while he deals with a new customer. 

With Geralt out for the week with the flu, he wasn’t able to hide in the back room like he usually preferred. His brother was gruff enough that he never got roped into long winded explanations from men dithering over the price of flowers for their mistresses or customer service issues. Eskel liked the peace and quiet of the rooms where the arrangements were typically made and no one would give him strange looks for singing under his breath or talking to the flowers beginning to droop.

He wipes his wet hands on his apron and shoulders through the door with his mind still fixed on the intricacies of the wedding arrangement he was currently working on. The bride had requested yellow roses to go with her color scheme, but maybe she could be convinced to consider sunflowers…

“Oh, hello there!”

Eskel looks up and stops short. Hydrangeas, his mind manages over the buzz in his ears. A blue that pure shouldn’t be possible within the small oceans of this stranger’s eyes. It was the same wild color of a summer sky and the perfect hue of Russian asters.

He swallows and forces himself to look at the rest of the man to try to distract himself from the heady reaction, but finds himself only spiraling further. He’s dressed in a tight pair of dark wash jeans that make the grey of his shirt and creamy color of his skin even brighter. His hair is the color of deep oak with veins of chestnut left behind by the rays of the sun. (Fuck, are those  _ curls _ ?) The man leans against the scarred wooden countertop with one hip cocked and his long legs stretched out with no regard to how it drew the eye to the muscles of his thighs and the curve of his--

“Do you work here?”

Eskel blinks and forces his eyes back to the man’s face, trying to ignore the hot flush curling up his neck. He tries not to think about the smooth timbre of his voice or the mischief that’s lingering in his eyes as he watches Eskel with interest. Clearing his throat, he smoothes a hand over his apron and the simple white shirt he usually wears to work and reminds himself that he’s a professional.

“I do,” he says--realizing that he’s left his nametag on the counter--and gives a weak smile, “how can I help you?”

The stranger’s smile widens and Eskels resists the urge to groan when he catches sight of dimples. His fingers tighten on the edge of the counter in an effort to keep from reaching out and tracing the line of it. The smile transforms his face into a work of art and leaves Eskel feeling like the world is tilting oddly beneath his feet.

“I need a bouquet and I have never been very good at picking out flowers. They always seem to die around me.” It’s obvious that the man seems to be overlooking Eskel’s awkward behavior and he’s terribly grateful for the excuse to focus on something he’s always ready to discuss. “Maybe something pink?”

Eskel nods and walks over to the fresh cut flowers set into the stands along one wall, giving the illusion that the wall is made of bright blooms. “Who is it for?”

“Pardon?”

He turns back to find the stranger looking a little distracted, eyes darting back to Eskel’s face like he hadn’t heard the question. “The bouquet. Who is it for?” he repeats gently, “Family? Wife? Girlfriend?”

It’s a lame attempt at asking if the man was single or straight and he imagines Geralt’s facepalm in the back of his mind.

The stranger grins. “Just a date with a beautiful woman.”

Eskel nods again and turns back to the flowers to avoid showing his disappointment. Of course, the man was buying flowers for a significant other. Why else would he bother going to a florist?

It’s the nature of owning a flower shop that people rarely entered without already being in a relationship or grieving the loss of one. They weren’t looking for a new relationship unless they were the type to cheat. He’d seen enough men and women buying multiple sets of flowers for different partners that he knew he’d never be able to tolerate such a thing in his life. He wants someone he can trust, someone who he knows is just as gone on him as he is for them.

Not that it matters much now. He’s practically doomed himself of a life hidden in a back room while the world continues to move forward without him.

“Does she have any favorite flowers?”

“Not that I know of,” the man answers with a familiar amount of bewilderment.

Eskel hums. “Is this for a special occasion? Or just because?”

“Just because.”

Of  _ course _ the beautiful stranger would be the type to buy his partner flowers. It’s like he was designed to be everything Eskel dreamed of and couldn’t have.

He pulls a few peonies in a soft pink along with a few gum leaves as filler. Then it’s a few carnations in pale cream and spirea. By the time he’s finished selecting complementary flowers and greenery, the stranger has migrated closer to look at the assortment with wide eyes.

“Wow,” he says with another blink of ridiculously long eyelashes. “You’re really good at this.”

Eskel gives him a small smile, glancing down at the flowers with a flicker of pride. He gently tugs and shifts the flowers until the arrangement is more balanced and each bloom is displayed perfectly. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

He walks back to the counter and pulls out some of the brown butcher paper and twine that Geralt had claimed ‘hipster would shit themselves over’ and begins wrapping the flowers. The stranger follows closely, leaning over to watch him work curiously. 

“How long have you been doing this?” he asks.

“I learned from my old man--he’s retired now, but this used to be his shop. My brother and I run it now.” Eskel’s smile at the thought of Vesemir’s reaction to being called his ‘old man’ is fond.

“Is he the one that came up with the name?”

He huffs out a bit of laughter at the thought of the  _ What in Carnation?  _ emblazoned proudly over the front of the building in gilt lettering. Geralt had pouted for weeks when he lost their bet to decide who would get to rename the shop when they took over. He’d wanted the shop named after wolves or some such nonsense.

“No, that’s all me.”

The stranger leans against the counter once more, all glinting eyes and distracting muscle moving beneath his tight shirt. Eskel’s mouth went a little dry when he sees the way his biceps bulge slightly when he moves. His lungs are full of a faintly spicy scent that contrasts nicely with the floral smells around them. It makes Eskel want to bury his nose against the join of his neck until everything else fades away.

Fuck, he needs to get control of himself.

“Do you want to write a message to the recipient?” he asks, nodding over to the small collection of poetry books he keeps for inspiration on the other end of the counter.

The stranger hums under his breath, considering. His face brightens when something comes to him. “Ah!” he says cheerfully. “How about ‘Because of rain, we stayed indoors and watched it pour. That’s how I found the one that I adore.’”

His heart does  _ not _ give a painful lurch in his chest. It doesn’t.

“Ella Fitzgerald?” Eskel manages, voice rough.

“Of course.” The smile the man levels at him is fond, eyes bright with enough interest that Eskel can’t help the blush that darkens his cheek. “Dot loves the classics.”

The reminder that this isn’t some precursor to lazy Sundays slow dancing in the kitchen of his home feels like a blast of cold water. No matter what kind of connection he feels with this man, it’s not going to change the fact that this moment would end as soon as he steps out the front door.

Better to remember that before he gets his heart broken. Again.

“That’ll be $30,” he tells the man before he can embarrass himself further.

The stranger nods, unbothered by the abrupt shift, and pulls out his wallet, running a finger over the soft petal of a peony. “It really is beautiful work.”

Eskel smiles and hands him the receipt and the bouquet, slipping one of their business cards into the wrapper. “Thanks for stopping by.”

He watches the other man open his mouth like he wants to say something more, but he just nods and smiles again, raising the bouquet in a silent salute. 

A moment later, he’s gone.

Eskel slumps against the counter and sternly tells himself to stop being such an embarrassment. He has too much work to do to get distracted by handsome, straight strangers who are in relationships. He takes a breath and stands upright again. There were wedding flowers to arrange.

* * *

The next time the stranger comes in Eskel is up on a ladder fighting to arrange a garland over the simple wooden wedding arch Geralt had built. He’s frowning, chewing on his lower lip as he tries to decide why it doesn’t look right.

“It’s off center.”

Eskel jumps in surprise, nearly toppling off the ladder. Only two strong hands bracketing his legs on the rungs keeps him from collapsing into the display. He looks down with wide eyes to see the handsome stranger from the week before smiling sheepishly at him.

“Sorry about that,” he says, “I thought you heard the bell.”

“Oh, I--it’s fine. I was just distracted.” He stares at the garland again, frowns, and reaches up toward the arch to adjust it once more. He makes a satisfied sound. “You’re right. That’s much better.”

It’s not until he starts back down the ladder that he realizes just how close the two of them are. His skin feels like it’s tight, warmer where the man’s hands are still brushing against his legs. He twists a little as the other man straightens and finds himself looking directly into those gorgeous blue eyes.

The stranger’s dimples flash and Eskel feels himself go giddy at the sight. He licks his lips and pretends not to notice the way those eyes drop to follow the motion. “Back for another bouquet?” he manages.

“The first one was a hit with Dot--you’re a magician with flowers.”

He smiles at the sincerity in the man’s expression. “I’m glad she liked it.”

Eskel slowly edges around the other man to head toward the wall of cut flowers. “Any preferences on color?”

“Hmm...I think her favorite color is green. She’s into earthy stuff.”

Thoughtfully, he begins to look through the fresh flowers they’d gotten that morning. He tugs a few sprigs of calla lily for height and a handful of orchids, enjoying the slight pop of color in the center. He considers the collection before grabbing some white lilies to add dimension.

“What are those?”

He turns to see the man inspecting a few flower pots arranged near the counter. “Succulents. They’re an easy starter plant for people who travel or can’t remember when to water.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven.” The other man tugs a lopsided cactus with a bright red flower on the top closer and traces the edge of it. “I like this one.”

Eskel tells himself it doesn’t mean anything that he’s picked out the plant that Eskel had rescued from the bottom of the box when it had been delivered. He’s been carefully nursing it back to health, enjoying the asymmetry of the little plant. Geralt had already teased him for having a soft spot for anything broken and for treating the plants like they’re pets.

It only gets worse when he hears the man murmur under his breath in a high pitched voice, “Feed me, Seymour.”

“Maybe you can try your hand with potted plants if you get tired of bouquets,” he offers as he begins fidgeting with the arrangement.

“I don’t see how--everything you make is gorgeous.” The easy way he compliments Eskel makes the florist flush with pride, enjoying the reminder of why he enjoys flowers so much. They were simple, beautiful things that made other people happy. 

Satisfied with what he’s made, he goes to the counter to tie up the arrangement and ring up the purchase. 

“I’m Jaskier.”

“Buttercup.”

The man blinks, frowning a little. “I’m sorry?”

Belatedly, Eskel reaches out to shake one surprisingly strong hand. He tries to ignore the way the calluses on his fingers feel against his skin amidst the rising embarrassment. “Your name--it’s another word for Buttercup,” he explains.

“Ah!” Jaskier says quickly, “I didn’t know that.”

He realizes the man is still waiting for his name and curses, “Sorry--I’m Eskel.”

“Not a flower name?” Jaskier bats his eyelashes playfully, startling a chuckle out of him.

“No, my parents didn’t want to be too cliche.”

“Well, Eskel, I have to say you’re quickly becoming my favorite non-flower-named person if you keep this up,” he says when Eskel presents the completed arrangement to him and accepts his debit card. Jaskier leans forward to fill his lungs with the sweet scent of the flowers in his hand, letting out a happy sigh before he opens his eyes again. 

“Happy to help,” Eskel murmurs. “Do you want to write another message?”

“Of course, the last one went over great.” He looks thoughtful, tilting his head like he’s scrolling through a list of songs. 

“More Ella Fitsgerald?” 

“No, Vivianne doesn’t like the blues. She prefers the big band sound.”

Eskel stops mid-motion with the receipt still in his hands. He tries to remember what the name of the woman Jaskier had mentioned the last time he’d come in. He could have sworn he’d called her Dot? Deb? Definitely not Vivianne.

“How about ‘You’ll never know/ How many dreams I dream about you/ Or just how empty they seem without you’?”

“Harry James,” Eskel says dully.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s reacting to the realization that the man in front of him is bringing these flowers to an entirely different woman this week. “I prefer Crosby’s cover, personally. No one sounds quite like him.”

He nods, looking down at the familiar wood of the counter. It feels like a tragedy that Jaskier is not only out of his reach, but he’s also cheating on the women he’s bringing these flowers too. It’s not fair that someone could quote all of Eskel’s favorite songs so sincerely without being bothered by the concept of cheating on one of his partners.

He should be grateful that he’s found this out now instead of after allowing this crush to develop further. Whatever possibility there might be that Jaskier is polyamorous or just dating around is slim enough that Eskel knows better than to hope for it. It was already a long shot that he’d even be interested--it was too much to hope for more.

So why was that so hard to accept?

“Thank you again!” Jaskier calls over his shoulder and a moment later he hears the chime of the bell above the door.

Eskel sighs and wishes he didn’t feel so disappointed.

* * *

The next week, Jaskier requests an arrangement of roses for Helen and carefully transcribes the lyrics of ‘Dream A Little Dream of Me.’

* * *

The week after it’s Dot again and more peonies surrounded by crocuses.

* * *

It becomes a habit to keep an eye on the front door every Wednesday. Jaskier told him after the second week that he tries to grab the flowers on his lunch break. It’s how he found the shop in the first place.

“I tutor a kid near here,” he tells Eskel as he watches the florist trim the thorns off some David Austen roses. “He’s a menace, but his mom wants him to learn piano and is willing to pay for all the grey hairs I’m getting.”

“You play piano?”

“And a few other instruments. My favorite is the lute.”

Eskel grins a little. “A lute? Do you moonlight as a bard too?”

Jaskier gives a delicate sniff, tilting his nose up like an offended heiress. “It is a majestic instrument,” he says then grins when Eskel snorts. “Do you play anything?”

“Just the kazoo. Badly.”

“Truly a classic instrument.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“Clearly,” Jaskier hums. “So what do you do when you aren’t dazzling me with your floral abilities?”

Eskel fidgets with the greenery until it settles properly against the brighter flowers. “Hmm...I’m not very interesting.”

“I doubt that. Everyone loves a man of mystery.”

He smirks at the other man. “Then maybe I should keep you in suspense.”

“Tease.”

“One of the added benefits to shopping here,” Eskel teases. He finishes with the wrapping and twine and looks up at the other man. “Any messages?” he asks with a pen already poised over the paper.

“Can you write that it’s for Mary?” Jaskier asks, leaning closer to watch.

Eskel stares at him for a moment, stomach sinking at the reminder of what he was there for. Another name and another woman.

Oblivious to Eskel’s internal conflict, Jaskier continues to gesture and smile about the woman he intended to give the flowers to. “She doesn’t really enjoy the classics. I was thinking ‘ _ Body-ody-ody-ody-- _ ’” He cut himself off and flushes bright red when he notices the florist’s wide eyes, “I’ll just write it out.”

The florist pretends to rearrange the business cards and brochures near the cash register. It’s better than focusing on the way Jaskier chews at his bottom lip in concentration when he writes.

“Perfect!” he says a moment later and carefully tucks it into the paper so it won’t fall out when he leaves. “Excellent work, as always.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Eskel replies faintly. 

The musician looks like he was a little curious about the sudden blankness in Eskel’s expression, but doesn’t press. “I’ve got to run if I’m going to make my next appointment. See you next Wednesday!” he calls cheerfully as he heads for the door.

Eskel watches him and tries not to sigh. “See you next Wednesday,” he repeats to the empty store.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see if there's a reason for Jaskier's odd behavior.

Jaskier pants as he races away from the subway station and up the stairs to street level. His shirt was still rumpled and slightly damp from trying to wash away the stain from the chocolate covered fingers of his last guitar lesson. He hadn’t had enough time to change before jumping on the train to the community center.

“Come on, come on,” he whispers while he waits for the light to change on the crosswalk. 

Viv was not going to be happy if he was late again. She’s been trying to get him to drop one of his many jobs in favor of focusing on his music, but he can’t manage his rent without keeping his tutoring jobs. Even if they had a tendency to leave him exhausted and covered in mysterious stains from grubby hands.

Someone jostles into his side and he barely manages to keep the latest bouquet from getting crushed by the rude pedestrian. He scowls at the distracted businessman who doesn’t look up from toying with his phone. It’s tempting to get into a shouting match with the asshole, but he doesn’t have time. 

Instead, Jaskier’s eyes return to the wrapped bouquet and he checks it over for any sign of damage. Eskel had really outdone himself with the latest arrangement. It’s all bright purples and violet offset by a few white flowers with black centers that the florist called anemones. He smiles down at the cheerful colors, already excited to show them off to Viv.

A warm flush curls through his stomach at the thought of the shy florist. Finding  _ What in Carnation? _ had been a stroke of luck that left him falling asleep and waking up with a smile. 

Eskel was sweet and possessed a quiet intelligence and sense of humor that left Jaskier making up excuses for any reason to go back to the florist shop. Whatever hope of pretending it was nothing more than a crush tailoring each decision to return to the small shop was disappearing beneath each quick smile and conversation. He knows from experience that the steady ache in his chest wasn’t something he could just pretend to ignore.

The light changes and he follows the path of the crowd toward the crosswalk. It’s a familiar route through the towering skyscrapers toward the older, weathered part of the city. The buildings here don’t have the shiny, plastic exteriors of the newest additions, but every inch tells a silent story of perseverance and strength. At their heart--literally and figuratively--was the community center.

Jaskier jogs up the steps and dodges around a group of seniors heading toward the gym for an afternoon session of Tai Chi. He smiles at a few familiar faces and turns down one of the side hallways toward a large, window lined room overlooking the river and a few nearby factories.

“Ladies,” he calls out with a flourish of his hand, “I’ve come bearing gifts.”

Immediately, the table of women seated closest to the windows and beneath the steadily humming air conditioning unit turn toward him with welcoming grins. He ignores the group a few tables over that scowl at him to focus on the three waiting for him.

“Julian,” a stately woman in an immaculately tailored suit in pale grey greets, “ we were beginning to wonder if you were still coming.”

“As if I could ever pass up an opportunity to look upon your lovely faces.” She accepts his kiss against her dark cheek with the regal air of a queen receiving her just dues.

Her partner arches a silvery eye brow at him, laugh lines crinkling at him in quiet humor. “I see you still managed to stop to make a booty call.”

“Dot!” The first woman exclaims with an affronted look.

Dot cackles, unapologetic and Jaskier flops into the chair next to the first woman with a dramatic sigh. “Can you believe her, Helen? I would  _ never _ .”

Helen hums thoughtfully. “You can’t call it a booty call, Dot,” she corrects with a wicked smirk, “if he hasn’t even touched it.”

“ _ Hel-en _ !” He tries to maintain his scowl at her betrayal, but he’s helpless against their well-intended teasing.

It’s been two months since he first fell in with this odd assortment of women and it’s already impossible to remember what it was like before he’d met them.

* * *

_ Two Months Earlier: _

His fingers found the last chords of  _ ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love With You’  _ and he smiled softly at the collection of couples swaying together on the makeshift dance floor. When he’d been called for this gig, he’d been worried that a senior’s dance would be a drag, but he’d fallen in love with the sweet smiles and delighted laughter in reaction to each new song. They’d even been receptive to the original pieces he’d thrown in amongst the collection of classics from the era.

After an hour of playing, he’d wandered over to the punch table and sidled up to a group of women talking softly amongst each other.

“--quick, before Karen sees us.”

“Maybe if we poked out her eyes she’d keep them off us.”

“Talkin’ like that is what got you kicked out of cooking class, Dottie.”

“That and your absolute shit bundt cake.”

“You--”

Jaskier had walked over, barely managing to hide his grin, while they shushed one another like students in the face of their principal. “Ladies,” he drawled.

The shortest of the group whirled around to face him, eyes raking over him like she was inspecting a soldier. It was a startling contrast to the friendly smile of the blonde at her side. “You work here?” she asked.

“Only for tonight.” He gestured toward the stage and saw some of their tension ease.

“Good,” she said with a nod, “keep a look out then.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped in surprise as she reached into the large handbag at her side and withdrew a handle of Everclear. “Is that--” he started to ask, but she cut him off with a gimlet glare.

“If you ask me if this is safe, I’ll hit you with this purse.”

He glanced at the large leather monstrosity dubiously, lips twitching into a grin. “Yes ma’am,” he murmured and dutifully turned to block her movement from the rest of the room using his larger form.

A few moments later, the blonde woman from before had handed him a cup full of suspicious looking liquid and patted his hand in a motherly fashion. “I’m Vivianne--but you can call me Viv,” she said before indicating the rest of the group. “That’s Helen, Mary, and Dolores.”

“Only my mother calls me Delores. You can call me Dot,” the brunette who’d spiked the punch interrupted. She looked him over with begrudging respect. “You’re much better than the usual group they use for these things.”

“Thank you,” he said, charmed despite her surliness.

A regal looking African American woman--Helen, according to Viv--stepped forward to level a smile he was sure had broken more than a few hearts and asked, “Tell me, Jaskier, have you ever played poker?”

“Not really, no.”

“Even better.”

* * *

That quickly, he’d become acquainted with the strange sensation of what it was like to be surrounded by family for the first time in his life. It started with a weekly poker game that had quickly demonstrated the vicious talent lurking beneath Helen’s smirk. He’d eventually had to acknowledge that there was no way to compete with the years of practice they’d had taking advantage of the kind of men who overlooked female talents. From there, he’d found himself signing up for an embroidery and cross stitching class until he’d become a regular face at the community center and was welcomed like one of the family.

Jaskier offers his latest bouquet to the last of the group--a compact woman with bright fuschia hair and a wicked smile. “Mary, my love, can you believe that they think I would bring you flowers just to see a man?”

Mary gives a snort of laughter, but accepts the flowers with a delighted smile. “You brought me flowers because I kicked your ass in the game last week,” she corrects then her smile turns wicked, “ _ and _ because you wanted to stare at Eskel’s ass.”

The rest of the table cackles and he sighs, unbothered by their good natured teasing. 

“It is a beautiful ass,” he agrees, thinking of the way Eskel had demonstrated his subtle sense of humor today while expertly arranging his flowers. “Of course, all of him is beautiful.”

“So when are you going to bring him to see us?” Helen asks, “We need to see if he’s good enough for our Julien.”

He sighs again, trying not to show his disappointment at his continued lack of success seducing a certain florist. “I can’t even tell if he’s gay,” he groans, “One minute we’re flirting and everything is great and the next he shuts down and goes back to being a professional.”

“You are attempting to flirt at his job,” Dot points out.

“Maybe he’s still working through his sexuality,” Mary says, “He could be experimenting.”

Jaskier hums, toying with the edge of the table. He’s gone down the road of getting a crush on someone who isn’t ready for any kind of relationship or doesn’t want to be open about liking someone of the same sex. His own family had been quick to throw him out after he’d come out to them--not that it had been much of a surprise after years of emotional distance and disinterest.

Dot’s hand pats his in a gentle show of support like she could sense the direction of his thoughts. He’d told the group of women about his own preferences after it had become clear that their poker games and gossip sessions were going to become a regular theme. They’d merely smiled and asked if he thought that would mean they’d stop beating him in poker.

The last of their group arrives in a flurry of bright pink tie dye and a beaded vest, her pale blonde hair curling wildly around her face. “What’d I miss?”

“Jaskier was just sighing over that florist again,” Helen says, shuffling the deck of battered cards expertly.

“Oh,” Vivianne replies with a bright smile, “nothing new then. Is he still talking about his ‘dreamy eyes?”

“Hey!” Jaskier protests, flushing a little. “I do not talk about Eskel that much!”

“I thought Karen was the one with dementia.”

A woman a table over turns and flips them the bird. Vivianne and Helen don’t bother acknowledging her, continuing the conversation as though they hadn’t noticed.

“Has he managed to ask him out yet?” Vivianne asks.

“ _ ‘He’ _ is sitting right here,” Jaskier pouts.

“Well? Have you?”

He slouches down in his chair, scowling. “No.”

“Don’t frown, dear. You’ll get wrinkles,” Helen clucks her tongue at him. “When are you going to finally grow a pair and talk to him?”

“Probably when you start letting me win at poker.”

“Never then.”

They laugh and he pretends to pout. “You can’t complain about me talking about Eskel when you’re the reason I met him in the first place.”

“We told you that you didn’t have to pay us for what was lost in the games,” Mary reminds him, “Poker nights are just supposed to be fun.”

“I have to do something when you’d take me for my shirt if we were playing for real.”

“Strip poker would be fun.”

Helen rolls her eyes, her hands continuing to shuffle the cards in a perfect bridge. She starts passing them across the table with practiced ease. “It’s like you’re trying to get us banned.”

“At least then we wouldn’t have to listen to Karen bitch about everything,” Dot grumbles.

On cue, the woman who’d been scowling at Jaskier when he’d arrived turns to complain,  _ “He doesn’t even go here!” _

“Stuff it, Karen!” Mary shouts back, glaring.

“I never should have suggested ‘Mean Girls’ at the last movie night,” Jaskier sighs as he examines his cards.

“She’s a bigoted old goat,” Helen says with a stern look towards Karen. “Best not to give her any attention.”

Mary harrumphed, “She’s just mad that Jaskier won’t be dating her granddaughter.”

“Poor girl will be lucky to date anyone with that personality,” Viv adds with a small frown. “The last time she came to visit, she ended up getting into a fight with the waiter at the restaurant that was bad enough that they got kicked out. Eskel sounds like a much better fit.”

“He’s just so  _ sweet _ ,” he groans, looking at his cards without any real interest.

“And funny and handsome and talented,” Dot continues drolly.

“You would love him. He even has great taste in music.” The thought of how easily Eskel recognized the songs in Jaskier’s notes to each of the ladies when he brings them flowers. It’s become a tradition for him to bring a bouquet to whoever managed to beat him the most soundly each week. 

It’s far too easy to imagine what it would be like to have Eskel in his life. It’s like he was made to fit into the empty spaces of Jaskier’s heart.

Not to mention the way each meeting at the shop proves that Eskel is perfect for him. Those whiskey brown eyes are full of quick intelligence and understanding that promises that he’s more than just a pretty face and matching muscles. But,  _ oh _ , to be able to reach out and trace the line of his pectorals that seemed designed to drive him from distraction beneath those simple white tees. 

He wants to know what it would be like to have Eskel’s attention fully on him without the mantle of his job preventing them from being truly open with one another. Like any artist, love has always come easily to him. He’s drifted in and out of relationships in the past, stifled by the knowledge that he always falls hard for the people who don’t feel the same. Eskel is different.

This is more than some crush, he knows. 

It’s been weeks and all he can think about is what it would be like to reach out and lace his hands through his, to feel Eskel’s breath against his skin, and to learn what sounds he makes when he give over to pleasure. He wants to laugh, to tease, to see what it feels like to fall asleep and wake up with Eskel in his arms. He just  _ wants _ . Anything. Everything. The good and the bad and the life they could make together.

He’s got it bad. 

“Maybe you should invite him to our next game,” Helen offers.

“You just want to see what he’ll do when he loses to you, you card shark.”

She smiles a little wickedly. “The best way to get the measure of a man is to see how he reacts to being beaten.”

The rest of the group nods sagely and begins the game, continuing to chat as they play. Jaskier tosses two cards into the discard pile and tries not to frown when his new cards don’t signal any success on this round. He knows better than to show his reactions openly.

Vivianne leans over and squeezes his hand in silent support. “It’ll work out, dear heart,” she says staunchly, “How could anyone not fall in love with you?”

Jaskier smiles and tries not to get his hopes up too high.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this odd cast of characters that are already trying to steal the show.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm frankly shocked at how much softness I've managed to write for these too. How unlike me...

The voice in his head that whispers it would be better not to get more attached to Jaskier is somehow never as loud as the thrill that sweeps over him each time he hears the front door open on Wednesday.

Today, though, he has his hands too busy to hear the faint tinkle of the bell. Mostly because his shop has been invaded by a tiny, cloven hooved terror.

“You can’t eat that,” he repeats. 

The pygmy goat currently attempting to eat the cut rose stems beside the counter in the back room. His brown eyes look unimpressed at Eskel’s attempts to curtail his lunch.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s going to make you sick.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

The sound of Jaskier’s amused voice makes Eskel whirl around and a hot flush curl up his neck. “Jaskier!” he says, trying to sound casual. “I didn’t hear the door.”

Jaskier looks around the counter top curiously, “What were you-- _ oh my gosh! _ ”

Eskel sighs, reaching down to grab Lil’ Bleater. “He’s harmless, I swear--”

_ “That is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen!” _

The florist watches the other man approach with something close to rapture on his face. He starts to reach out to pet the goat, but waits until Eskel nods his approval before brushing his fingers gently over Bleater’s soft white and brown fur. The pygmy goat is only a few months old, but he has more than enough personality to make up for his tiny body.

“He wasn’t feeling well this morning so I brought him to work with me,” Eskel finds himself explaining to avoid examining the feelings Jaskier’s reactions are creating. He gives the kid a look that doesn’t convey any real heat. “Although, he seems to have recovered now that he’s eaten everything in sight.”

“What’s his name?” Jaskier asks in an awe-soft voice.

Bleater, the little shit, starts trying his best to eat the sleeve of Jaskier’s denim jacket. Eskel tries to lean him away, but the musician follows after him making grabby hands. “Bleater,” he answers, a little gruffly against the familiar embarrassment and expectation of teasing, “I call him Lil’ Bleater.”

“Such a handsome little guy, aren’t you?”

There is no reason to be jealous of a goat, Eskel tells himself firmly. 

“Be careful,” he says gently, “He’ll ruin your jacket.”

The warning is genuine--as many of Eskel’s flannel shirts can attest. Jaskier’s denim jacket isn’t a worn and stained shirt though. The denim is covered with a patchwork mixture of hand stitched designs. Over his heart, is a stylized lute with Jaskier’s name stitched into the wood grain. Eskel’s eyes trace a logo reading ‘Stitch Bitches’ that is set high on his arm.

Jaskier follows his eyes and smiles a little ruefully even as he gently pulls the fabric away from the goat’s teeth. “That’s alright--I can fix it. I just don’t want to upset his stomach again.”

“He’d deserve it,” Eskel says with a gimlet stare toward the goat.

“Nonsense! He is a precious little angel. Aren’t you?” 

Jaskier coos at Lil’ Bleater without seeming to notice the sound of Eskel’s heart landing on the ground by his feet. It feels like the softest fantasy made reality. Even his brothers liked to tease him for how much he doted on the goats he raised on the acres surrounding the green houses where they grew some of their flowers for the shop. 

To keep himself from doing something foolish--like beg Jaskier for a date--he gently take Lil’ Bleater from the musician and returns him to the small pen near the work table where the goat can’t snack on something that will make him sick. The other man quickly leans over to resume scratching the goat’s back before it can attempt to escape. It also gives Eskel an impeded view of long legs and an ass that was made for Eskel’s hands.

“Now,” he says quickly, coughing to clear his throat, “what kind of flowers are you wanting today?”

* * *

Eskel thinks he’s managed to keep his rapidly growing crush under control using his usual method--distraction.

“Doesn’t Lambert usually watch the booth?” Yennefer asks with a hint of suspicion.

He carefully doesn’t look away from the buckets of flowers he’s assembling in rows beside the mobile work table they use. The farmer’s market is already filling with people and he can smell an enticing array of food beneath the sweeter floral plooms. They only set up a stall twice a month as a way to get rid of some of the excess stock and get some new customers. 

Lambert, for all his unprofessional mannerisms, fits well with the bustle of the farmer’s market and bleary eyed customers looking for a bouquet for their table of loved ones. During the week, he stays behind in the hothouse, fussing over the blooming plants that keep the shop afloat. Eskel and Geralt happily deal with managing the shop between them along with the various larger orders that come along. It keeps everything neatly within their strange looking family.

Geralt’s girlfriend is lounging against the table like a male fantasy come to life--and waiting like a praying mantis to rip off the head of the first man stupid enough to notice. Her strange eyes flit over the crowd to choose who is most likely to buy a bouquet for an outrageous price. It is one of many reasons why Eskel and Geralt rarely allow her near the unsuspecting public.

“He wanted to take Aiden out today. I think they’re hiking.”

Yenn hums and returns her attention to Eskel--something he’s not entirely excited by. “And you just decided to cover his shift out of the goodness of your heart?”

Eskel rolls his eyes. “Are you implying I’m not usually nice?”

“Nice, yes,” she agrees easily, “but you hate people.”

“I don’t hate people!”

Before she can respond, a woman with short hair and an irritated expression on her face cuts in. “Ugh,” she says with a dramatic wave of her hand, “are all of your flowers this smelly?”

Eskel takes a breath and schools his features into something that would be appropriate in front of a customer. “Fresh blooms tend to smell strong in large clusters like this. I can point you towards some of the more subtle smells if you’d like?”

“My florist doesn’t smell this...strong.” The woman’s nose wrinkles and she scowls at the colorful array like they personally insulted them. “It’s making my head hurt.”

“Then why don’t you run along?” Yennefer offers in a dangerous voice.

The stranger opens her mouth to argue, takes a look at the other woman’s face, and reconsiders. She huffs something about rude employees before scurrying into the safety of the crowd.

Yennefer looks unbearably smug.

Smiling a little at his friend’s antics, Eskel shifts a few more buckets of flowers closer and begins crafting some ready-made bouquets to attract customers. He falls into the familiar rhythm easily and lets Yennefer handle the money and requests. He’s never enjoyed the constant chatter that comes with working the front area, preferring to work quietly with music playing through the headphones he keeps around his neck.

Eskel is humming along to a Florence and the Machine lyric and toying with a cluster of crocuses when he hears his name being called from somewhere nearby. He looks up curiously and feels his heart give a painful thud.

Jaskier makes his way easily through the crowds of people carrying bags of fruits and vegetables towards the florist stand. He’s traded the uniform he wears into the store most of the time for a pair of ripped and well worn jeans that paint the muscles of his thighs like a lover’s touch. He looks comfortable and beautifully rumpled--as though he’d just rolled out of bed and into the softest clothes he could find. On his arm was a colorful canvas tote that was liberally splattered with paints and matched the older woman walking at his side with a fond smile.

The florist made a noise in the back of his throat--that was  _ not _ a whine, no matter what Yenn said--when his eyes tracked over the low neck of the thin white t shirt Jaskier was wearing. It allowed a daring look at his collarbones and the dusting of dark hair that must cover his chest. As Jaskier comes closer, Eskel manages to make out the details that were hidden by the distance.

Oh fuck, there were  _ tattoos _ .

They curled over the edge of his pectoral muscles to the base of his throat in an intricate pattern. He was able to pick out a few musical notes along with several blooming peonies and a buttercup nestled at the base of his throat. Eskel’s mouth waters with the need to follow the artwork leading beneath the thin fabric that dared him to rip it apart with his bare hands.

Before he can attempt to intercept Jaskier before Yennefer sinks her claws into him, his friend is darting over to plant herself firmly in front of him. She leans against the counter in a way that draws attention to ample curves.

“And who might you be, handsome?” the brunette purrs with a quick glance at Eskel.

Jaskier gives her a wary look, but smiles politely. His eyes remain firmly focused on her face. “I’m Jaskier--Eskel’s best customer.” He turns to gesture to the older woman at his side. “And this is Viv.”

“Eskel,” she says with a bright grin, “I’m so pleased to meet you. Jaskier has told me all about you.”

Eskel’s happy flush goes unnoticed when the musician turns to shush Viv and whisper something to her. Viv looks unbothered by his reaction, continuing to look the florist over like she’s sizing him up. He tells himself that there’s no need to worry about what her opinion is. Jaskier is just a customer after all.

(The familiar mantra feels less and less true each day.)

“He’s single handedly ensuring my retirement, I think,” Eskel says. “Are you needing another bouquet?”

“No, actually. I just saw you from across the market and thought I’d come say hello.”

Viv smirks and shares a meaningful look at Yennefer. “He nearly ripped my arm off when he saw--”

“ _ Anyways _ ,” Jaskier interrupts quickly. “I’m just here to act as the muscle for my dear friend here and carry all of her groceries.”

“Such a gentleman,” Viv says and reaches over to pat his arm in an affectionate gesture that seems to drain whatever tension was still trapped in Jaskier’s shoulders.

Eskel tries not to look disappointed that he’s lost the excuse to talk to Jaskier like he usually does. With Yennefer watching, it was a dangerous addiction to imbibe. He already knows she is going to have a million questions for him as soon as they’re out of sight. He’ll be lucky if Geralt and the others don’t find out about Jaskier before the day is over.

He schools his face into something more neutral and leans over to pluck a dusky pink chrysanthemum, a few sprigs of white sweet pea, and some greenery into a miniature arrangement. Viv’s face lights up with delight when he hands it over to her. 

The florist glances over at Jaskier with a slightly bashful smile. “I can’t let friends walk away empty handed.”

“Is that what we are?” Jaskier asks softly, “Friends?”

There’s a question in his eyes that makes Eskel’s breath catch.

They watch each other with a growing tension that was only broken when a family with several young children hurries over to look over the flowers. It snaps the growing link between the two men and seems to return the world to its usual rhythm. 

Along with the judgmental looks from Viv and Yennefer.

Eskel coughs and looks down even as Jaskier makes a dismissive gesture. “Yes, well...ah, we’ll leave you to it then. You’re, you look like you’re busy now.”

“I’ll, um, see you Wednesday.” It was meant to be a statement of their usual routine, but somehow it comes out sounding like a question.

Jaskier smiles and nods again, turning to follow Viv into the maze of stalls. He glances back a final time before disappearing into the crowds.

“Wow.”

Yennefer’s tone makes Eskel bristle and a hot flush curl up his neck. “What?”

“That was difficult to watch.”

He huffs out a breath and paces away to refill some of the buckets with fresh water so he has something to do with his hands. He hopes it would be enough to distract Yenn away from the line of questioning, but she only follows after him.

“How long have you had a crush on him?” she presses.

“It’s nothing,” he says stiffly. “He’s a customer.”

“A customer that is practically built out of your wet dreams. Don’t think I didn’t notice the tattoos.”

He closes his eyes and tries to pretend like his body wasn’t remembering  _ exactly _ what he’d been imagining when he’d seen them.

Yennefer’s voice softens a little at the obvious disquiet in his features. “He obviously likes you too, you know. Why haven’t you asked him out? I’m sure he’d say ye--”

“I can’t.”   
  


She frowns at his abrupt answer. “Come now, Eskel. He would be lucky to have you--all of us know that. You deserve to be happy with someone too.”

Eskel tightens his jaw, staring down at the shears in his hands without seeing. “He’s already seeing someone.  _ Multiple _ someones.”

He looks up in time to see her mouth open and close in silence, brow furrowed in surprise. “But he was flirting with you--I saw it. You two are in to each other.”

“I  _ can’t-- _ ” Before he could finish the explanation, a familiar pale headed figure shouldered into the booth with a bag full of food and a tray of coffee. 

“Sorry it took me so long--some asshole held up the line.” Geralt leans in to kiss Yenn’s cheek before settling the tray onto the overfull table. He looks between the two of them curiously, noting the tension. “What’s wrong?”

Eskel’s eyes plead with Yennefer not to tell her partner about Jaskier and he sees her give in with a silent sigh of displeasure. Then, she shrugs at Geralt.

“Just another Karen complaining that our flowers smell too strong.”

“Did you make her cry?”

“No, it’s been a slow morning.”

* * *

Eskel barely looks up from the inventory logs that are spread across the table and only calls out a distracted, “I’ll be with you in a moment,” when he hears footsteps coming closer.

“You look busy today.”

His head snaps up when he recognizes Jaskier’s familiar voice. The musician gives him a soft smile that makes him realize he’s still got his reading glasses on and a pencil tucked over one ear. “Jaskier!” He frowns a little, glancing over to the calendar to confirm. “It’s not Wednesday.”

For once, he’s grateful that Geralt has skulked away into the back rooms to pretend he doesn’t know it’s time to do their weekly inventory check.

Jaskier tilts his head curiously and gestures back towards the door. “I can leave if you’re busy…”

“No!” Eskel holds out a hand like he’s trying to stop the movement before it can be made. He flushes when the other man’s eyes widen in surprise. “No, it’s, it’s just inventory. I’d rather talk with you.”

The smile brightens until the lingering embarrassment that came with such a statement disappears. He steps closer to the counter and nervously withdraws a small package from the satchel at his side and hands it over.

Eskel looks from the package back to Jaskier with a raised eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“It’s nothing big, I promise. I just made it in my cross stitching class and I, I just thought you might like it.” Jaskier looks adorably flustered by the end of his explanation and he ducks his head to avoid Eskel’s eyes. “It’s silly, but I wanted to give it to you.”

Eskel swallows the emotions that explanation creates and looks down at the crumpled package. The wrapping is a little sloppy, but he can pick out the marks that show how many times the musician had attempted to make it perfect. He traces a finger over the fold of the brown paper before carefully beginning to pull apart the paper like he was afraid to rip it.

He can feel something soft and pliable beneath the wrapping that he interprets after years of Christmas gifts as something fabric. Jaskier is practically holding his breath by the time Eskel finally begins to unfold the simple cloth. The shape of the sturdy canvas apron is familiar after working in the shop for so long, but his eyes are drawn to the riotous mass of colors on the front.

The shop’s logo is nestled so it would hang over his sternum and is surrounded by a number of blooms. He drags his finger over the design, feeling the threads with the pad of his finger. His eyes pick out the familiar shapes of each flower--only realizing why each had been chosen.

“These are all of my favorite flowers,” he whispers softly.

Jaskier shifts a little nervously. “I thought you might like it better than using a premade design.”

“You remembered them.”

“Of course I did,” the musician says with a shrug, “I remember everything you tell me.”

Eskel looks away from the apron and stares at Jaskier with the now familiar sensation of falling. Like he’d discovered that he’d been holding his breath for too long and was now able to fill his lungs once again.

He licks his lip, weak and wanting all at once. “It’s beautiful.”

_ You’re beautiful. _

Jaskier beams. “I’m glad you like it. It’s mostly Viv’s doing.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her how impressed I am next time I see her.”

It’s hard to imagine Jaskier as just another cheater like this.

He watches Jaskier’s eyes crinkle in the corners as he laughs up at him and pretends he doesn’t know what the answering ache in his chest means. He can pretend that this is nothing more than a client relationship or even friendship.

(Anything else is just a fantasy.)

Something chimes in Jaskier’s pocket and the other man jumps in surprise. He reaches down and fishes his phone out and frowns down at the screen.

“Shit,” he grunts, “I’ve got to run.”

“Musical emergency?”

“Close. Dot needs someone to pick her up from a doctor’s appointment.” He looks apologetic. “I’ve got to run.”

The mention of one of the other women tames some of the warmth spreading through Eskel’s chest, but he nods. His fingers stroke over the flowers once more.

“Thank you again for the gift,” he says, “It’s amazing.”

Jaskier’s smile is blindingly bright, but he nods and rushes out of the shop towards the bustling city beyond.

Eskel watches him go and tries not to sigh like some lovelorn maiden. He looks back at the apron and carefully stretches it out over the counter so it won’t get wrinkled, admiring the details stitched into the fabric.

“You have to stop this.”

He turns around and comes up short when he sees Geralt leaning against the door frame with a grim look on his face. He feels his shoulders slump, the lingering pleasure he’d felt over getting to see Jaskier dimming. “Yennefer told you.”

“She didn’t have to,” Geralt answers. “You’ve been acting strangely for weeks--sending me off an random errands, offering to cover the front instead of staying out of sight like you prefer--and always on Wednesdays.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, there isn’t. But there is a problem with you getting involved with a man who comes here each week to get flowers for a different woman.”

“How do you know I’m interested in him?” Eskel blusters, feeling far too exposed in this conversation.

“You wrote a heart over the ‘i’ in his name. For three weeks in a row.”

Eskel flushes, hot with shame and embarrassment. It felt like Geralt knowing about Jaskier took away whatever feeble hopes he’d been clinging to that this would all somehow work itself out. That Jaskier would come to his senses and decide Eskel was worth being with.

It’s a familiar lie now.

Geralt sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, looking tired. He steps closer and claps a comforting hand against his shoulder in silent support. “You know I don’t like telling you this,” he says wearily, “but you deserve someone who’ll commit. I don’t want to see you with another Chad--”   
  


“Don’t.”

Eskel’s protest is feeble against the memory of the heartbreak and pain that had come with learning the truth about what his ex had really been doing when he worked the ‘late shift’, That trauma had been enough to ensure that Eskel avoided dating as much as possible and that his family had become even more protective than before.

Geralt watches him with painfully sympathetic eyes.

Maybe it’s the pity that’s lurking beneath the familiar look or the knowledge that it wouldn’t be long before Lambert, Vesemir, and the others all knew how naive Eskel had fallen for another cheater. Maybe it’s the ache in his chest that tells him it’s already too late to walk away from this without anyone getting hurt. Maybe it’s the exhaustion that suddenly feels like he can barely stand beneath the weight of all the truths he’d been trying to avoid for weeks now.

Either way, he forces himself to carefully return the apron to the discarded wrapping paper and set it out of sight beneath the counter. He straightens his spine with brittle strength and schools his expression into a neutral mask.

“You’re right,” he says evenly as he stares at the lists of items without really seeing them. “It has to stop.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it something I've written if it doesn't have a little heartbreak?

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you'd like to see more!


End file.
